Losing It
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: "Mum? Am I fat?" But Dudley knows the answer already, and he hates it.


_Gardening, task 2: someone wishing they were smaller, shorter, or slimmer_

_Word Count: 1191_

_Warning: bulimia, body image issues_

* * *

"Mum?" Dudley asks, frowning.

His mother looks up at him, offering him a bright smile. "What is it, Dudders?"

He resists the urge to scowl at the nickname. Maybe it's cute, but he doesn't care for it. "Am I fat?"

He knows the answer, of course. His father says he looks _healthy_ and calls him a _growing boy. _His mother tells him it's just a little baby fat, that it will balance itself out eventually.

But he isn't a baby anymore. At fourteen, he thinks that maybe it's time to accept the truth and move on. Even his teachers have expressed their concerns, and the staff have sent their recommended diet plan that has made Dudley's summer a living hell.

His mother's smile fades for just a fraction of a second, but she manages to compose herself almost immediately. As expected, she closes the distance between them and rests a bony hand on Dudley's shoulder. "Of course not, sweetheart!" But her voice is just a little too shrill, the way it sounds whenever she's uncomfortable; once, that tone has been reserved strictly for explaining away Harry's freakish accidents. "You are absolutely perfect."

Dudley smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He knows his mother means well, and he also knows it's a blatant lie. "Thanks, Mum," he says, because he doesn't know how else to react.

…

He stares in the mirror, and he hates what he sees. Once, being big had meant being powerful. All he had to do was clench his fists, and others would cower in fear and move out of his way.

Now, at fourteen, he realizes that big isn't that important anymore. The people with power are the ones who have muscle, not the fat ones. They still cower before him, but he thinks that might just be because the others in his gang are just as intimidating.

He slams his palms against the mirror. The glass shakes, but it remains firmly in place. Dudley wishes he could shatter his reflection and never have to see it again.

…

Piers sits on the couch, feet lazily propped on the coffee table. He breaks off a small piece of a banana before dipping it in his chocolate ice cream. "You sure you don't want some?" he asks with a grin. "It's heavenly."

Dudley can't help but stare at him. Piers is the type who can shove nothing but pure junk into his mouth, and he won't gain an ounce. Somehow, he remains just as tall and wiry. Even though they're best friends, Dudley hates him a little bit for that.

"Nah, mate." He holds up the bag of celery sticks. His mum had actually packed them for him as snack, as though it's normal for a teen to carry random vegetables in his pockets. "Smeltings sent my parents that bloody diet thing."

Piers snorts. "That's a load of bollocks, and you know it."

That's why Dudley loves Piers so much–not that he would ever use that word aloud. No matter what, Piers is always fiercely loyal, even though he doesn't have to be. Dudley's parents have to tell him how perfect he is; it's their parental duty. Piers, on the other hand, owes him nothing, but he never has anything negative to say about Dudley.

"Did you see the whale they hired in the office?" Piers asks. "Did they send _him _a diet list?"

Dudley almost smiles, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. He shrugs. "Let me get some of this heavenly chocolate-banana goodness," he says, reaching over.

…

Dudley kneels before the toilet. The shower is running, drowning out the sounds of him retching and gagging. He digs a pudgy finger deeper into his throat.

He is fat, and he doesn't want to be. Why can't he be smaller like his mum? Why is he such a fucking failure?

He drops his hand quickly, wiping the saliva on his shirt as the day's contents spill from his mouth.

He shouldn't have eaten that junk with Piers. He is weak and pathetic, and he hates himself.

Vomit snakes its way up his esophagus, splashing into the porcelain bowl. Shouldn't he feel better? Even though he doesn't feel quite as bloated, it doesn't relieve the negative voices shouting in his heat.

He flushes before dropping to the cold tile floor, completely and utterly defeated.

…

He falls into a pattern, and he can't seem to break it.

He binges.

He hates himself.

He pukes.

Nothing changes.

…

"You okay, Big D?" Piers asks, dark brows knitting together. "You haven't touched your chips."

Dudley bites the inside of his cheek. He picks up a soggy, ketchup-soaked chip before dropping it. Chips are his favorite. He isn't supposed to have them, but he has his secret way of dealing with things, and it should make him feel better.

It doesn't. There's a voice in his head that whispers over and over that he's a fuck-up, that will always be fat, and everything he's doing is in vain.

"No," he admits in a sigh, slumping forward and resting his elbows on the table. "I'm not okay."

He can't help it. He confesses everything to Piers. It's dangerous to voice these fears, but he doesn't care anymore. This isn't working, and he's so tired. All he wants is to see a change and be a better, slimmer, healthier person.

When Dudley is done, silence hangs between them. He waits for Piers to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, he pushes his plate aside and clombs to his feet, moving closer, quickly closing the distance between them in a few strides. He wraps his scrawny arms around Dudley, hugging him tight.

This is new territory. Piers has always been softer than the rest of their gang, but he has never been affectionate until now. Still, it isn't actually unpleasant, and Dudley realizes he's needed someone to make him feel safe like this.

"You could have told me," Piers says. "How can I help?"

Dudley pulls back and gestures at his body. Nothing has changed, and he is still too big and miserable. "I just want to be better."

Piers offers him a soft smile. "I've got you."

…

It isn't easy, but Piers is kind and patient. They start with walks, then slowly move on to jogs.

"Watch," Piers says as they jog past his house. "You'll be _running _marathons before the year is out."

Dudley knows that isn't quite accurate, but he still grins like a madman. Slow progress is better than know progress.

…

He's tired and out of breath, and his clothes are drenched with sweat when he comes home for dinner.

"Good jog?" his dad asks.

"Oh, Dudley! Go get cleaned up!" his mother says, shaking her head. Still, she smiles.

Dudley offers her a mock salute before starting for the bathroom.

He turns the shower on and peels away his shirt before looking at his reflection. He isn't there yet, and he has a long way to go. Still, he is on the right track, and he thinks that maybe he can do this.


End file.
